all they do is steal from you and I
by SunSpell80
Summary: Finnick goes on his regular morning run and attempts to sneak back into bed without waking Annie up. Things do not go as planned. Future!Outtake from "The Art of Staying Good" (a year and a half down the road). Also works as a separate oneshot (no need to read my epic before you read this)


A/N: This is kind of like a future outtake from The Art of Staying Good. It was an idea I had while writing the next chapter of a missing moment that would take place a couple of years down the road. I was impatient to write it, plus it was in Annie's POV, so it didn't fit in the story. Maybe I'll eventually include it from Finnick's POV. Or maybe I'll change my mind about a few things and this will diverge from ASG canon (there are a few hints for future ASG developments that are upcoming and may or may not make it into the final story. I'll let you find them).

For those of you who haven't read "ASG", that's totally fine, it works outside of it. There are a few OC's mentioned, but if you read the piece carefully you can tell who they are.

The title stylistically matches the chapter titles of ASG, but it's actually not a song lyric. I made it up (I CAN be creative).

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Warnings: sexual references and a few mature themes. Kid's stuff compared to ASG, which is why this is rated "T"

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Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games

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all they do is steal from you and i

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The smell of sweat and salt hits my nostrils before I am even properly awake. My nose probably wrinkles a little in my sleep because it is such a pungent yet familiar combination. I wonder if I'm near the ocean somehow and the sweat…well, there's no reasonable explanation for the sweat. If it is coming from me then my body odor is worse than I'd ever been told. Perhaps I need to start wearing deodorant to bed?

The feeling of a weight settling down heavily on my side jolts me out of the last vestiges of sleep. There's a person next to me, a very warm person who just climbed into bed quietly and slowly, probably not wanting to wake me. Skin rubs against mine and it feels more than a little sticky.

"You went for a swim and didn't shower." I accuse without opening my eyes, pressing my nose into the skin near it – probably belonging to an arm – and taking a big whiff. "And a run, by the stink of you."

"Mmph." Comes the muffled reply. "Go back to sleep."

It must be an arm because it pulls away from my nose and wraps around me, pulling me closer. Had I been more awake I would have protested, because now _I _am going to smell. But the room is drafty and I'm not well dressed for it – as I'm naked – and he is unbelievably warm so I not only allow it, I snuggle closer. I do let out an annoyed huff and chide: "Now the sheets are going to smell and since it's your fault you were too lazy to shower, you'll have to wash them."

I get the feeling he's only half-listening because he answers, "That's great. Sleeping."

My head lifts up and I open my eyes briefly to peek at the bedside clock. I register "8:23" before my eyes close shut and I drop my head back down to rest against his chest. "I think I'm waking up." I admit, because my brain is going faster, not slower, and in a few minutes I'm probably not going to be able to keep my eyes closed.

I hear a snort. "Is that why you're laying on me? To wake up?" He's probably too tired to realize that could be interpreted in a sexual way, but maybe not. I'm pretty sure he could construct an innuendo in his sleep.

"I'm laying on you because you're comfortable." This is irrefutably true, in spite of the sweat. If I don't move my cheek I don't notice the stickiness. He's warm, soft, solid and did I mention warm? I've never met anyone so warm in my life, and I don't mean that metaphorically – though that's certainly true too. He must constantly be at the verge of having a fever. In the past year and a half we've been dating, it's ridiculous how often I've had to use him as my personal body heater. The fact that I'm borderline anemic with poor blood circulation doesn't help. Sometimes I wonder how he can stand my icy skin touching his, but he claims to love it.

Well, they say that opposites attract.

That's not strictly true, of course. We're more similar than we are different. But his physical warmth and my cold are one aspect in which we are opposites.

Another way is that I am a morning person and he is a night person. Actually, it might be more accurate to say that he is a _sleep _person. We go to bed at the same time, a reasonable hour typically before midnight, and he'll normally get up around six or seven to exercise before crawling back into bed with me and proceeding to sleep until noon. I, on the other hand, normally sleep straight through his morning escape and wake up promptly at nine.

I feel him heave a loud sigh, like I'm the one with the crazy sleeping pattern and it's all my fault he's awake right now. "If it's comfortable then you should be able to sleep." He sounds like he knows he's already lost in this fight. Once I'm awake I don't fall back asleep. That's why he's normally so keen on keeping me asleep while he goes off on his morning run and swim. He, on the other hand, could fall asleep at any time of the day, in any situation, on any surface (I have the picture of him passed out on Mags's porch steps to prove it).

The thought puts a smile on my face and pushes me a little more toward full consciousness. I shift my head so that my chin is propped up against his chest and looking up at his face when I open my eyes. As if he knows I'm really waking up now he scrunches his eyes shut tightly before peeking them open.

Plenty of people in District Four have green eyes. In the Capitol they "ooh" and "aah" over them like they're something exotic and beautiful. Normally they're nothing special. Like mine. They might startle some people outside of Four just because they're green and apparently that's unusual. And my eyes are big so that makes people think they're prettier than they actually are. The color is actually nothing special. Just dark green with a hint of blue, muddied by hazel.

His eyes are actually beautiful. They're lighter than mine, and they have enough blue that you could call them "sea-green" without it being romanticizing. There's no hazel: the color is far more consistent than mine and they are exactly like the water on a calm, clear day. Even at the awkward, narrowed angle I'm glimpsing them at currently, they're incredible.

A hint of bitterness twinges my gut when I think about how I'm not the only one to find his eyes striking, but I push that away for now. Those thoughts don't belong with us here and now.

"Hi," Finnick says in what has become our morning ritual. Once, when I thought I was on the verge of death and needed to convince the world not only that I was worth saving, but that I had the motivation to save myself, I listed what I wanted to live for. One of those things was a future where I would wake up next to the same person everyday, watch his eyelashes flutter open and just say, "Hi."

I probably shouldn't have been surprised then that "Hi" was what Finnick greeted me awake with the morning after our first night together. He remembers practically everything I've ever said. It would be disconcerting if it weren't so lovely.

"Hi," I whisper back, stretching up to press a kiss on his chin, because it's the only place I can reach in my current position. "Rise and shine."

His groan doesn't match the smile on his face. "I've _already _rised and shined and now I'm ready to de-rise and de-shine. So no thank you."

He says this last bit so matter-a-fact that I laugh and tug on one of his curls. "You're going to waste the day away and it's so beautiful out." I haven't looked outside to see if this is true, but I can sense it. It's one of those days.

"This is Four: it's beautiful six days out of seven." Finnick's been outside and doesn't refute my claim that it's a nice day, so my instinct must have been right. "And I've got no responsibilities today, I can sleep all day if I want." There's a little too much relish in his voice and I frown up at him.

"But that's the point." I reminded him. "Neither of us have anything we have to do today, so we're supposed to spend it with each other."

Finnick's reply is quiet, like he was expecting this response. He probably was. "Which is exactly why you should go back to sleep and we can spend time together…sleeping."

His arms tighten around me like I'm his personal teddy bear and I laugh again. "You know I can't do that. I'd have to stay up half the night to be tired enough to sleep all day."

I regret this statement as soon as it comes out of my mouth. Predictably, Finnick's head pops up and he's suddenly awake and giving me _the look. _"Stay up half the night, huh?" He teases me. "Why my dear Annie, if that's all it takes–"

"You're incorrigible!" I protest. "Besides, you just exercised and I thought you were tired!"

Now he's wagging his eyebrows at me and probably getting far too much enjoyment out of my red face. "I'm never too tired for you," The seriousness of his voice doesn't match the expression on his face and I'm half hysterical, half aroused. I know from experience that this situation is going to lead to us _both _being sweaty and exhausted and falling asleep and damnit he's going to get his way again –

The phone rings.

It breaks my heart more than a little to see the way Finnick's devious expression falls so quickly from his face. He sucks in a breath and even though he's still just as warm, everything feels cold cold cold.

I realize after only a second that I can't bear it, so I blurt out: "It could be Johanna."

"Yeah…" Finnick doesn't believe me. I don't really either. "Or Haymitch, I guess."

"Or Haymitch." I latch onto desperately, though Johanna hasn't called since the accident and Haymitch only called for a few months after the accident to consult with Finnick about "The Johanna Problem" and hasn't called since they worked their damage control. So it's probably neither of them.

Finnick still isn't moving and even though I don't want him to answer it, I know the consequences for not would be terrible. So, hating myself, I say: "Whoever it is, it's probably not for me." Because this isn't my house and there's nobody who would ever call me except for Felicia and Drew maybe, and even though they don't approve they know where to find me if they need me. Finnick nods and sets his jaw. "I could answer it though." I blurt out, even though this isn't true. I can't answer the phone. If it's Johanna, she'll cuss me out and say nasty things because she's hurting inside and that's how she handles her pain. Haymitch will probably make some inappropriate remark.

And if it's the Capitol…

Finnick gently slides me off him and when he sets his hands on my shoulders I realize I'm shaking. "It'll be okay," he assures me and I feel terrible, because I'm supposed to be the one holding myself together and doing the comforting. As usual, Finnick is having to pick up my slack.

He pulls his gym shorts back on and runs downstairs. The phone keeps ringing because the phones here are designed with Victors in mind: they know that we're paranoid and suspicious and won't want to pick up but if it keeps ringing we'll wear down and give in. We are broken in, after all.

I slip out of bed as well – not bothering with clothes – but don't follow him down. Instead I press myself to the vent and listen in as his answers the phone in the kitchen.

"Hello?" There's an edge to his voice. If it's another Victor or my siblings, that edge will go away. The silence that follows his greeting is deafening and I keep waiting for a laugh or a sigh of relief that never comes. Instead he says, "When?" and I'm colder than ever before because the edge has grown sharper and he's not laughing or sighing and he sounds just as dead as I feel inside. I'm just laying naked on the floor with my heart in my stomach, thinking it can't possibly get any worse, when he blurts out incredulously, "_Today_?"

I'm going to let myself cry now because I need to and maybe if I let it out quickly I'll be able to pretend to be strong when he comes back upstairs. When I was little I didn't have to pretend. Drew would wake up screaming from nightmares and come to me for comfort. Felicia would stay up weeping while I stroked her hair. Even my mother found relief in my hugs. I watched my father choke out his last breaths as his organs shut down and didn't cry. But that's not really true, is it? I never did those things. Little Annie Cresta did, the steady, reliable girl who became whoever her family needed for them to survive.

Little Annie Cresta drowned years ago and all that's left is a shell that looks like her and sounds like her and sometimes even acts like her. And right now I'm drowning all over again, the icy water threatening to slow my movements until I freeze altogether. The terrible thing is, it's a selfish sort of drowning. I'm drowning in fear for myself.

What will I do for the days – weeks possibly – that he's gone? Staying with Mags is hard because when Finnick's not there it's like we're both aching from his loss and I can see her pursing her lip and worrying and thinking and that gets _me _worrying and thinking about nails like claws that ripping him apart and teeth and hands that don't belong on him because I'm the only one that's supposed to touch him and I just can't. Going to my house is no better because Felicia is there with her judgmental eyes and snide comments and she makes me want to scream because she knows nothing nothing about what is happening but she won't believe me when I tell her to just trust me because I'm mad. Mad, mad, mad, my sanity severed from me like Triston's head was severed from his body with his eyes rolling toward me and blood pouring from his mouth and his neck because it was no longer attached right and I'm seeing it now like I know I'll be seeing it for the days I'm alone and that's when the thoughts start coming like a tidal wave bursting a dam, coming at you so quickly you want to scream but the water fills your mouth as you open it and you're choking hoping you'll drown because life is horrible and everything is painful and what is even the point –

"Annie."

I look up to see Finnick, off the phone and standing in the doorway. He looks sad, but I know the sadness is all for me. This only makes me feel pathetic so I take a few deep, calming breaths. "I was supposed to be done crying before you came back up." I admit shakily.

"I didn't know you could plan crying sessions." He's attempting humor to make me feel better. It falls very flat. "Did you pencil it into your schedule?"

I shake my head slightly to show him that I refuse to let myself off the hook so easily. "This is my job. I'm supposed to be the strong one right now." Yet I'm crumpled on the floor and he's standing up straight. I'm sure I've felt more like a failure than I do right now, but at the moment I can't remember. "I'm sorry I'm weak."

He refutes this too quickly. "You're not." Sometimes I think Finnick loves me too much to really see me clearly. I'm an awful, selfish pitiful excuse for a human being. Yet he walks up to me with a blanket and wraps it around me with such tenderness, like I'm the most precious thing on the planet. It's not fair.

Nothing is fair. You'd think I'd have learned that when the pulled my name out of the Reaping Ball three years ago.

Finnick sets me on the bed and I cling to him, knowing that when I let him go he'll be _gone gone_, pulled into the gaping cesspool of despair that is the Capitol, that place that has stolen so much from he and I. They don't tell you these things in school. They hold up Victors as shining examples of the Capitol's generosity and _they don't tell you the cost_. I was never a Career, I didn't dedicate my life toward achieving the wealth and status I have now; but I did watch the Victors in their fancy clothes buying whatever they wanted in town and think more than a few times, 'I wish I had that life.'

I wouldn't wish this life on my worst enemy. Not on Tiberius, who cleaved off Triston's head with his axe and whose eyes I practically dug out with my bare thumbs. In a way, Tiberius was lucky he actually drowned. Because he got to stop drowning and be at peace, while I've been drowning every day of my life since then.

Finnick's pressing a kiss to my head and I tilt my chin up, desperate for more but only if he wants to. I wouldn't blame him if he pulled away right now – I'm hardly desirable with my blotchy face and the snot coming out of my nose, and he's going to be kissing more than his fair share of lips soon, probably even tonight – but he meets my lips frantically, hungrily. He'll have to leave soon, sooner than I probably want to know. So I don't ask. This day we were supposed to have together was cut short: stolen like my sanity and his innocence and our happy future.

All that we can do now is make the most of the time we have left.

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A/N: Yeah, that ending line was supposed to be bittersweet and prophetic. Poor Annie.

Hope you guys enjoyed it! This is supposed to be set a few months or so after the 73rd Games, btw.


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